To Thomas Hardy, life is short, nasty, brutish, and pretty much meaningless. After death, the human existence ceases completely — not only the body but the whole presence is so readily erased from the living’s memories — as if that person has never been born, has never graced the earth before. Beyond death is nothing, nothing. And how pitiful we human beings are; how fragile our life is.

“Ah, are you digging on my grave My loved one? — planting rue?” — “No, yesterday he went to wed One of the brightest wealth has bred. ‘It cannot hurt her now,’ he said, ‘That I should not be true.'”

“Then who is digging on my grave? My nearest dearest kin?” — “Ah, no; they sit and think, ‘What use! What good will planting flowers produce? No tendance of her mound can loose Her spirit from Death’s gin.’ ”

“But some one digs upon my grave? My enemy? — prodding sly?” — “Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate That shuts on all flesh soon or late, She thought you no more worth her hate, And cares not where you lie.”

“Then, who is digging on my grave? Say — since I have not guessed!” — “O it is I, my mistress dear, Your little dog, who still lives near, And much I hope my movements here Have not disturbed your rest?”

“Ah yes! You dig upon my grave . . . Why flashed it not on me That one true heart was left behind! What feeling do we ever find To equal among human kind A dog’s fidelity!”

“Mistress, I dug upon your grave To bury a bone, in case I should be hungry near this spot When passing on my daily trot. I am sorry, but I quite forgot It was your resting-place.”